The Stone
by Lola L
Summary: For the first time in many years, Draco was not concerned with Harry Potter. HBP Spoilers. WIP, Harry Draco...eventually [slash]
1. The Stone

**Chapter 1: The Stone**

For the first time in many years, Draco was not concerned with Harry Potter.

He rubbed the blade of grass between his fingers, and watched the soft, green leaf give way as he tore it in two.

There was a time when Potter had been in the forefront of his mind. Every mention of him in the papers, good or bad; every time he passed Potter and friends in the hallway; every thought of that elusive Quidditch victory that now would never be his.

But now, it didn't matter. He didn't matter. Harry fucking Potter, Boy Who Lived, the fucking Chosen One, didn't matter. Not to Draco.

He had so much more to think about, now. More important things than Potter.

Draco smirked, and dropped the blade of grass, now broken into two. Everything had changed now.

He lay back on the grass, and wondered absently whether his robe was getting dirty. It had rained the night before, and the grounds were somewhat muddy. But that didn't matter, either. So his robes were darkened.

Once upon a time it would have mattered. Like Potter.

He breathed in, smelling soil and wet, early autumn air. Above him, the sky was clear blue, empty of clouds. The crisp sun held just a trace of warmth. It was late in the afternoon.

He hadn't had much time to himself since the school year began. At first, the high of it all had buoyed him. He'd basked in the attention, the certainty of it. He had a role to play. He could feel the knowledge of his task, his importance, exuding from every pore, and he watched as others responded to it. Pansy, Crabbe, Goyle, they knew something was different, that he was different. They were prepared to follow, and he was their natural leader. Pansy was prepared for... other things, too. He hadn't taken her up on it yet. Like everything else, that didn't quite seem to matter either, or at least not as much as it had before.

Even Snape saw the difference. Draco was sure of it. He saw something in Snape's eyes that hadn't been there before. Respect or... maybe it was jealousy. Snape had taken that vow, but that was because he wanted the glory for himself…

But Snape wouldn't get what he so wanted. This was Draco's role to play. Draco's task. The Dark Lord had chosen _him._

This wasn't how he'd imagined it would be, though. He had imagined a different path for his future, a slow but sure path to power like his father's. A path that would have had time for a win against Gryffindor and Potter. At the thought, Draco sat up suddenly, sneering. Such pitiful concerns. How could he have cared so much about something so unimportant?

He grabbed a stone that lay next to his ankle. A flat, dark stone, not quite the size of his palm. Slightly uneven on the bottom, and moist with dirt.

Draco stared at the stone for only a moment, and then pressed it into the grass, tearing a few blades from the soil. He ground the stone into a patch of grass in circles, wanting to see the green bleed, to see the life force escape.

But grass didn't really bleed. It did release a sweet, earthy scent. Draco shrugged slightly. That would have to be enough.

This wasn't the path that he'd imagined, but it was the one he would take. Snape wouldn't steal his glory. And his father would expect him to do it.

And it was infinitely better than thinking about Potter.

He felt a gaze burning the back of his head as he listened to Slughorn. And then Draco _knew_ Potter's eyes were on him, as he cut away at the root. Draco was determined to win that potion, but perhaps not as much as he would have been in the past. The potion could help him with his task, but some of his drive was gone, the drive to do any challenge that was thrown his way. He wanted to win, to beat Potter. He could still taste the desire in the back of his throat, but... it just wasn't the same.

And so, of course, Potter won it. Potter, whom Snape had always derided in Potions. But perhaps this was Snape's oversight. Draco was more than Snape's equal now, in the Dark Lord's eyes. He realized that Snape could make mistakes. Underestimating Potter was undoubtedly one such mistake.

But Potter wasn't Draco's concern anymore. Yes, the Felix Felicis might have helped him, but Draco would find his own way.

As they walked away from Potions, Draco felt Potter's gaze on him again. He wanted to turn and push Potter away, hard. To tell him: stop following me, stop staring, this rivalry doesn't matter anymore. I have more important things on my mind than you.

But then he'd be making the same mistake as Snape. No, Draco wouldn't underestimate Potter, but nor would he be goaded on and distracted from his task.

In the Great Hall that evening, Potter wasn't watching him anymore. He was too intent on reading some book. From where Draco sat, surrounded by Slytherins, he couldn't make out what book it was that so held Potter's attention.

Voices drifted around Draco, inconsequential. Crabbe and Goyle, engaging in what could not truly be called banter, at least not by a discerning mind. Pansy appeared fascinated by the feel of the cloth of Draco's new robes. It was high quality, he couldn't fault her taste. She was stroking it, admiringly, perhaps possessively, while regaling Draco with the story of her day. He nodded at most of the right times. If she knew he wasn't really listening, she didn't show it.

He was thinking. Had he gone about this in the right way? At first it had seemed like a brilliant idea, but now, faced with the task looming ahead of him, he couldn't help but wonder. But he didn't have room for doubt. He'd succeed, and open a path to Hogwarts right beneath everyone's increasingly watchful eyes. This had to have been the right choice.

And then a thought rose unbidden in his mind. What would Potter and friends do? That Mudblood would undoubtedly have some clever plan, which Potter would simply follow and come out on top.

Draco shook the thought away. His situation was the opposite, as always, from Potter's. He had followers, not friends. This was Draco's strength. Crabbe and Goyle would do what he bid them to. But Draco would have to rely on his own mind. Crabbe and Goyle certainly didn't have anything to offer in that arena.

Besides, Potter would never kill anyone. He wouldn't have the nerve. Not to take a life, not to extinguish the existence of another being. Potter was too soft, too inconsequential, Chosen One bullshit aside. In fact, Draco highly doubted that Potter would ever have the nerve to fulfill that prophecy, whatever the details, even if he could ever get to the Dark Lord.

Draco, on the other hand, would prove that he did have what it takes. Draco wasn't stupid, he knew the Dark Lord might not intend for him to succeed. But he would prove them all wrong.

He turned his focus to Pansy, whose attentions to his robe had become more and more intimate. He flashed her a smile, and she met his gaze with a flare in her eye. Perhaps a little distraction wouldn't hurt, after all.

All day in that room with that fucking cabinet. All day in a place that didn't exist, and sometimes when he stared at the thing, it just looked like a cabinet.

Lessons were slipping by him. Quidditch was slipping by him. He was missing out on everything. He almost didn't remember what it was to just sit with the others, laughing silently--or out loud--at Crabbe and Goyle. To be annoyed by Pansy's constant touching. To talk about Quidditch. To complain about Potter.

Now it was just him and the cabinet. This cabinet that would ensure that he could play his role. If only he could just fix the fucking thing.

He kicked the cabinet, hard, and couldn't help but laugh as his foot throbbed. Typical.

This wasn't going to work. Fuck.

Maybe he needed a back up plan, something... something else.

How could a room that was created just for his needs feel so claustrophobic? It was spacious, the ideal work room for his task, and yet it felt as if there was no air. No windows, just cream colored walls that watched, impassively, as he tried again and again to fix the cabinet. To make it a pathway. To turn it from a broken down piece of furniture into the key to everything.

If he didn't succeed... but he wasn't even going to think about that.

Draco sank to the ground and leaned his head against the cabinet. It smelled of old wood and must. It reminded him of the unused rooms in Malfoy Manor in which he used to hide when he was young. He used to wait in those rooms for someone to find him. He would lie on the large, high bed or sit on the floor next to some Malfoy family artifact, exhilarated by how cut off he was from everything, half hoping he'd be found, half hoping he wouldn't.

Now he was in a room that didn't even exist. If he stayed here, no one could find him. What would they all say? Draco Malfoy has disappeared. Just vanished. Draco smirked at the thought of the ruckus Slytherin would be sent into. The whole school, no doubt. It would be a great mystery. It would even make the papers. All the first year girls would swoon, telling tales of the missing Draco Malfoy, how handsome and mysterious he was. Not that they didn't already.

Potter and friends would undoubtedly be pleased, though. Potter would rule the school. It was disgusting how much he did so already. Draco hadn't had time to compete this year, hadn't had time to make Potter doubt himself, not since that satisfying encounter in the train. But he still wanted to wipe that Chosen One smug grin off Potter's face. Potter's superiority complex had gotten even worse this year. Draco couldn't miss it, every time he looked over and saw Potter with the Mudblood and Weasel, all caught up in their lives, going forward while his had just stopped. God, he hated them.

But Draco didn't have the time or energy to do anything about it. This room and this cabinet was becoming his all. Maybe he was being too single minded. He needed to come up with another approach. Maybe something more direct. Something that didn't require backup.

Draco stood in one fluid move. Looking at the cabinet in disdain, he gave it one more swift kick for good measure before leaving.


	2. The Snitch

Draco flew and flew and flew. He didn't know how long he had been at it. When he'd started, the sun had just set beyond the horizon, leaving a dusky sweetness in its wake. The evening still had the scent of summer to it, but autumn was beginning to creep around the edges, with a new bite to the air that whipped past Draco's face. Round and round he went, the field farther and farther below him. There was no purpose to his circling, no snitch in sight, of course.

That day he had received a letter from his mother. Graceful and magnificent, his Eagle owl had dropped the envelope in front of him. He had stared for a long moment at the careful yet fluid handwriting, black ink on cream paper.

_Dear son,_

I hope the school year is treating you well. I know your responsibilities are heavier this year than in the past. As your mother, I see you as just a boy, but the world sees you as a man. Still, I hope you will look to your elders for help and guidance.

It is my wish that you will be able to return home for Christmas, but if not I will understand.

With love,  
Mother

Christmas. Draco could not imagine the holidays without his father's presence. School break had always been a time to prove himself, to demonstrate to his father all that he would have to offer as a Malfoy. His mother had watched on, and he had assumed that she had been proud. She would buy him things, and take him to the city for shopping trips which would end with tea in her favorite restaurant, and he would feel that there  
was nothing she loved more than to show him off. Now... now everything was different.

There would be no Christmas this year if he did not succeed. He would not return home. Those winter weeks would be too valuable. And his mother would be alone.

But to succeed...

He had a new plan. He could only hope it would work. The necklace had been beautiful; it had caught his eye immediately. Ornate and yet restrained, it exuded power. He knew it had a dark and terrible history. It had wrought much pain since its creation. If it reached its intended... then the job would be done. The Dark Lord would appreciate the method--art and history in his approach.

Who knew what would happen then, how things would change. But perhaps he would have Christmas with his mother after all. Maybe even his father, if the tides had turned.

Now the sky was almost completely dark, the moon only a shadow of itself, wrapped in grey, ghostly clouds. Draco could smell woodsmoke in the air that rushed around him as he flew, and suddenly it seemed as if summer were a distant memory. Flying hadn't cleared his head at all, only filled him with a longing for which he had no place. Right now, more than anything else in the world, he wanted to be flying after the snitch, seeing it sparkle just out of his grasp. He'd even be glad to watch Potter steal it from him.

But instead the grounds were empty, the sky was blanketed in a deathly darkness, and the snitch was nowhere to be seen.

Draco leaned against the stone wall. He had walked for a quite a while during his free period to get to this spot, far outside of the normal paths of Hogwarts students. Just a few square feet of grass, shaded by trees with barren branches, their leaves now brown and crunching beneath his feet. He had settled on a strangely inviting, angular corner to the building. He could only barely hear the distant voices of his classmates, their laughter catching on the cold breeze and drifting away.

He needed a space to think that was not the Room of Requirement. This would do.

So the necklace had failed. Katie Bell was in St. Mungo's.

It would have worked. It would have been fantastic had the necklace made it to Dumbledore's hands.

Now he was back to plan A. The cabinet. Never had he thought he could hate an inanimate object so much. But spending so much time with it, his feelings of bitterness had grown, all directed at its musty wood and ornately curved feet, smooth, impassive doors and detailed metal hinges. He'd be glad if he never had to see the thing again.

And yet, at the same time, it had become his only friend. When he saw his classmates, he found he could no longer slip inside their conversations. It took too much effort to try to connect. Crabbe and Goyle didn't notice, but Pansy was becoming increasingly annoyed. He assumed it was because he wasn't even trying to fake it anymore. But what was the point? If he did succeed, he doubted he'd be coming back to Hogwarts. Maybe there wouldn't even be a Hogwarts, at least not in its current configuration. Draco couldn't imagine Hogwarts without Dumbledore.

Maybe the Dark Lord would turn Hogwarts into something else. A school for the Dark Arts. Now there was a school Draco would attend.

But as it was, Draco felt himself losing touch with Hogwarts life more quickly than he would have imagined possible. He went to lessons and put in the motions, but just barely. Fortunately he was smart enough that he could still keep his marks up--well, reasonably so, at least. He couldn't achieve the perfection that had previously graced his school record, but what difference did marks make anyway? And Quidditch was beginning to feel like a distant memory too. He still made practice more often than not, but now he imagined even his teammates whispering about him. While he flew above them, he imagined they were saying awed, envious things about him, about how he was rumored to be a trusted confidante of the Dark Lord. When they looked at him, it certainly didn't feel like they were looking at one of their own. And he had used to be their prince, their favorite.

So now the cabinet felt like his closest friend. And yet he hated it. He dreamt about it sometimes. What kind of fucking bizarre thing was that, that he would dream about a damn cabinet? In his dreams he saw wood and the empty, single mindedness that was the Room of Requirement. It was more like flashes and images than any kind of normal dream. Powerful words. A door. Dark stained wood, dancing before his closed eyelids.

So he had come here, to lean against the stony grey wall at the far edge of Hogwarts, just to get away from them all. Crabbe and Goyle, Pansy, and the cabinet. Glad to be alone, with the brown leaves and the sharp air of deep autumn. The sky was that dark white grey that almost tasted of snow but not quite.

And then Potter rounded the corner.

He seemed startled to see Draco, though not as much as Draco was to see him. But it didn't look like pure surprise, more like Potter was caught off guard. What was he up to?

"Are you following me, Potter?" Draco sneered.

Potter flinched. "Why would I bother following you, Malfoy?" He snapped back. So predictable. And not at all a convincing performance. Yes, Potter had something on his mind.

Draco shrugged dismissively. "How would I know? But I'm sure that I'm infinitely more interesting than anything else you'd have to do with your time."

Anger flared in Potters' eyes, and he seemed to recover his nerve. "Trust me, Malfoy, I couldn't care less what you're doing out here on your own." His tone was as presumptuous as ever. "I have no idea what you do with your time. For all I know you're out here to…" Potter broke off the sentence, filling in the blank with a vague hand gesture.

Draco laughed outright. He was almost impressed that Potter could be so crude, but really it was so... vulgar. "Having a wank? That's the best you can come up with? And you can't even say it. You disappoint me, Potter."

Draco was delighted to see a hot blush rush to Potter's cheeks. Damn, this was priceless. Potter looked like he'd rather be anywhere else right now. Served him right for… well, everything.

Flustered, Potter rushed on. "I'm just surprised to find you without your usual adoring fans. So it seems a safe assumption…"

Draco scowled. Enough was enough. "Sod off, Potter. You have no idea what's on my mind."

Potter's eyes narrowed. "If you'd like to unload yourself..."

Draco laughed again. "No thanks, Potter, I'll pass. If I wanted to have a heart to heart, you would not be my first choice." His voice purred seductively on heart to heart. He watched with a smirk as Potter predictably paled and then flushed angrily.

"I know you're up to something," Potter retorted.

"Do you now?" Draco replied coolly.

Potter's eyes flared, and he looked like he might say more, so Draco held his tongue, curious to see what else Potter would reveal in his Griffyndor rashness. But Potter just continued to stare angrily at Draco as if he couldn't think of any follow up, which probably he could not. Finally, he simply turned on his heel, leaving Draco blissfully alone.

The silence was a relief. Maybe he was becoming a misanthrope. Or maybe it was just Potter whom Draco couldn't tolerate. Still, there was a familiarity to their fighting that left a burning in his gut that Draco hadn't felt for a while. It almost felt... good.

Draco shook his head. He did miss making Potter feel like an idiot. But those days were over. It was best not to look back.

He was furious. He wanted to break things.

But he was surrounded by people, by his "friends" who were gathered in the Slytherin common room, saying their goodbyes, even though most of them didn't leave until tomorrow. The superficiality of the exchanges around him made him ill. They sat on the ornate couches and chairs, talking in low, seemingly happy voices about their holiday plans, as if everything weren't different this year. Didn't they know it was all going to change?

He couldn't listen to their nonsense anymore. Draco stood up and pushed his way past his classmates, heading for fresh air. He felt their eyes on him as he left.

The whole thing was wearing on him. He had a headache which hadn't left him for days now.

And Snape, Snape was the worst offender. How dare he? Snape clearly wasn't trying to help--if he were, he'd have let Crabbe and Goyle alone. But instead Draco was forced to maneuver Hogwarts himself, and just his luck that Filch had found him during Slughorn's stupid party. If he'd been there one minute before or after, Draco would have been safely on his way.

But no, instead he had to face Snape, Slughorn, and the fawning Slug Club. Disgusting. Harry fucking Potter was there, by invitation of course--that hadn't escaped Draco's notice. Not at all surprising, but still infuriating.

Draco hadn't cared that he wasn't invited. It was beneath him, a party like that. He didn't need Slughorn's approval. He didn't need anyone's approval. But to have to grovel after Filch had dragged him in there, just to keep from arousing suspicion... it smarted. It was still smarting.

Unthinking, Draco pushed his way through the hall, past other Hogwarts students all seemingly caught up in their own lives. He made his way to a small courtyard that he hoped would be quiet this time of day. Once outside, he released his breath in a sigh of relief. It was cold, and he didn't have a jacket. But the cold felt good. Cathartic. There was even frost crunching under his feet. There would be snow soon. Maybe even today.

Of course Snape had to reprimand him over the fiasco with the necklace. That was so like him. As if everything Snape had ever done had succeeded. Draco laughed bitterly and stuck his hands in his trouser pockets, trying to keep them warm. Snape was just a jealous old man whose time had past, and who wanted to steal Draco's glory.

It was Draco whom the Dark Lord had picked for this task. Draco who would be the one to change everything.

But this time Draco couldn't stop the word from appearing in his mind. Why? Why him?

He'd already considered that the Dark Lord might not intend for Draco to succeed. But why? Something between the Dark Lord and Draco's father? Something about which Draco knew nothing? 

The thought made his stomach twist. He wouldn't think about it too hard, because it didn't matter. Draco would succeed, and he'd show them all.

His hands were getting cold, despite his efforts. Draco shuddered as a chill passed right through him, and then he suddenly had the sensation that he was being watched.

He looked up to find himself under the direct, unflinching gaze of that Mudblood, Granger. Her brown eyes met his for an unsettling moment. He didn't look away.

And then she turned around, heading back into the warm glow of Hogwarts. Draco watched her leave before sinking to sit on a cold, stone bench. He sat there for a long time, watching the lights from inside the arched windows glow golden yellow as the evening took hold, a velvety cold darkness settling on the courtyard.

Draco's eyes fluttered open. He lay still for a moment, waiting to become accustomed to the morning light. Sitting up slowly, he pulled the blankets up to his waist. He must have kicked them off during the night. Another dream, no doubt. His nights were full of them now. Disjointed images of the cabinet, of words, of his mother's voice, distant, as if through a tunnel. Of the Dark Lord, the feel of electricity in the ornately decorated, heavily curtained room when he had called Draco to him and told him what he wanted Draco to do.

Draco shuddered. He leaned forward and reached down to the low, horizontal window, wiping at the white frost which blocked his view. Slowly the snowy grounds of Hogwarts came into view. White and cold and grey. The sky was almost the same color as the snow. The darkness and mist seemed to bind the emptiness of winter, so that it felt as if there were was no escaping it. Empty, sunless winter would stay forever.

Falling back in bed, Draco pulled the blanket up to his chin, and turned over. His hand slipped down his body, into his pajama bottoms. He was hard, and alone. He was one of the only Slytherins staying for winter break. It wouldn't hurt to...

He jerked himself slowly, trying not to think at all, banishing all thoughts from his mind. He didn't want to think of anyone. Not of warm bodies or wanting anyone else. Certainly not of Pansy or any other inconsequential girl. He just wanted to feel, and to forget, to feel good, just for a fucking second.

Especially he didn't want to think of the Dark Lord and how it felt to be his pawn. How fucking angry it was making him, more every day, as he did what he was told. And how Potter thought he knew what Draco was up to. He didn't even have a clue. That sanctimonious prick, thought he had faced all the problems in the world, and that he was always right, when he didn't even begin to know what it felt like for Draco, the things Draco would have to do. He'd leave Potter in the dust when all was said and done.

Draco groaned and turned over, so that his body was flush against the soft bed and dark green cotton sheets. God he wanted... not to think. Just to feel. He needed to escape all of this completely, just for a matter of seconds, just long enough to...

And too soon he was coming, in a sticky mess on his bed. Flushed and frustrated, he sat up. Fuck, now he needed a shower. And a new set of sheets.

In the smooth tiled bathroom shower, the hot water was bracing. It surrounded him in steam, tangible and moist. The shower felt like a bubble, separating him from the world.

Hogwarts for the holidays. This was a first. It was crucial that he stay, for now there would be no students to get in his way, no need for Crabbe and Goyle to transform into little girls. The polyjuice trick had been amusing at first, but now it was getting old. As was the waiting, waiting to be sure he could emerge from that room back into the real world, the one inhabited by other students and professors. The one where life went on.

Draco bent his head forward into the water and closed his eyes. He missed his bathroom at home, the deep red-brown wood and cream colored tiles that always felt so appropriate in their classic design, the way the sunlight danced through the window onto the floor, crisp and clean. The prefects' bathroom... could have been uglier, Draco supposed, but it still felt anonymous and cold, even in its attempted luxury.

He was supposed to get away from here during the darkest winter weeks. He _needed_ the biannual break from Hogwarts. But he had stayed, as he knew he must, while all the others around him had left. Most everyone had returned to their families for the holidays this year, driven away by the pervasive fear of the Dark Lord that lurked behind every scared first year's eyes. Or so Draco assumed. Now he had the hallways and bathroom and even the Great Hall almost to himself. It felt false. Like a dream.

The pulsing water was real, though. Personal and cleansing. Direct. He felt his head clear as water streamed around him. The task ahead of him was... what he would have to do. He'd give himself one more day to fix the cabinet, and then he'd put his new back up plan into motion. He didn't have much time, if he were going to go through with it. He already had a good sense of what to do, thanks to that Mudblood. Granger wouldn't be pleased were she ever to learn that she had unwittingly handed him such a tool.

He would just need to figure out the final logistics. There was a chance it wouldn't work, but there was a chance it would. And if it didn't, then it was back to the cabinet while he considered his other options.

With the water rushing around him, this plan felt logical, centering. As if he could make a list, as he might for his homework assignments. He'd simply cross each item off as he went. Not thinking about any of it.

Draco turned the water off and just stood, willing this moment of clarity to last. He leaned against the tiles of the wall, feeling the steam dissipate, the hot air transforming into a cool reminder of the winter outside.

And before he could stop it, there was that yearning again. Fuck.

He had to not feel it. It wasn't an emotion that belonged to him. He was never the type to long for something that couldn't be his.

But that was because _everything_ could be his. And would be, when he was done. He was learning now... With each failure, his knowledge and understanding of the Dark Arts was growing stronger.

Really, this was a priceless opportunity the Dark Lord had offered him--to be exceptional. He'd be the most powerful wizard of his generation. He'd leave them all in the dust.


	3. The Clock

**Chapter 3: The Clock**

Draco sat in the Great Hall, almost completely alone. Only a few students were at breakfast that morning, and Draco was pleased to see that they wisely kept their distance from him. Since the school had cleared out for the holidays, he had avoided almost any social contact. He always brought a book with him, as if he were studying for NEWTs.

This morning the Great Hall's sky was a cold, dark grey. It barely felt like daytime. He could feel the chill all the way through him. And it was Christmas morning.

Rosmerta had completed her task yesterday. Maybe the bottle of mead would make its way to its intended this afternoon. Maybe it would all be over by tonight. A happy Christmas to everyone.

Draco was waiting for a sense of excitement that he expected he should feel. Would feel, any minute now. If the bottle reached Dumbledore, he would no longer have to contend with the cabinet. He'd have done what everyone believed he could never do. Poison wasn't as graceful or striking as the cursed necklace would have been, but still, his task would be achieved.

Or not. He glanced over at the table where the professors usually sat. It was empty.

Perhaps... perhaps it had already happened. Perhaps they just hadn't made an announcement to stave off the panic that would surely come when everyone learned of Dumbledore's death.

Draco's stomach lurched. He put down the carefully buttered piece of toast he was holding in his hand. Maybe he was going to be sick.

He must be coming down with something. He should see the nurse. Come to think of it, he hadn't felt well since yesterday. And he'd had a headache for days. But he definitely had started to feel worse yesterday, his stomach unsettled, eating away at him.

If he were honest with himself, he knew what had triggered his illness, and it wasn't anything with which Madam Pomfrey would be able to help. It had been Madam Rosmerta. Yesterday he had passed the instructions to her through the coin, and then imagined her following through. He hadn't felt the same since.

The Imperious curse itself made him uncomfortable. He had thought he'd liked having power over others. He certainly appreciated when Crabbe and Goyle did his bidding. And using dark magic made his pulse race, made him want... he couldn't put his fingers on what it made him want, exactly. But it was a giddy feeling, delightful and painful at once. A rush.

But this was different. Draco liked Madam Rosemerta.

Butterbeer always made him think of her, and the golden warmth that surrounded her in The Three Broomsticks. He shouldn't have cared for either her or her establishment, both were so... crass, so everyday. But he did.

Madam Rosmerta had always been nice to him. She didn't treat him any differently than she did the other students, but somehow she still managed to make him feel special. She reminded him of his mother.

And now Madam Rosmerta had given him poison.

But it wasn't as if it were her choice. Draco had taken away her control, and it made him feel sick to do so. He couldn't pretend he liked the feeling.

He breathed in slowly, trying to get himself under control. He couldn't be blamed for what he had done to Madam Rosmerta. Madam Rosmerta was serving him and he was serving Voldemort. Draco wasn't afraid of the Dark Lord's name anymore. Why should he be, when he was doing just what Voldemort had asked?

Draco stared disdainfully at his uneaten eggs and toast. There was no way he could stomach breakfast now. Maybe Dumbledore was dead.

He barely made it to the boys' bathroom before he was retching into the old white sink, hot tears stinging his eyes.

- - -

Draco clutched at the edges of the sink. He felt cold nausea break over him, again and again. His stomach wouldn't stop turning over, his throat hurt from trying to vomit when there was nothing left to expel.

Shakily, he turned the faucet on, watching the water wash away his weakness. He swallowed and tried to breath again. Slowly. One breath at a time. 

"You look awful."

The voice caught Draco off guard, and he spun around before he even realized he was moving. His stomach lurched again.

He found himself confronted with what he could only assume was Moaning Myrtle. He had never met her before, but had heard her described with much embellishment. She wasn't as ugly as he'd imagined.

He wiped at his eyes quickly. They were still burning from his bout with nausea, and he didn't want to give the wrong impression. Draco Malfoy did not cry.

Moaning Myrtle's transparent face seemed to soften, and she floated closer to him, reaching a hand out as if to brush at Draco's hair. "I'm sorry," she said, "I didn't mean to be rude. Usually I'm the one that's miserable, that's all."

Draco didn't quite know what to say to that. He didn't know why he'd bother saying anything to this pathetic ghost at all. He heard his voice before he fully realized he was speaking. "I'm not having the best day," he said. His voice quivered only slightly.

She floated even closer toward him in response, and he thought for a horrifying moment that she was going to kiss him. She might have been intending to, but clearly thought better of it and sat on the sink next to his. "Tell me about it."

"I can't," Draco replied bitterly.

"Yes you can," Myrtle protested. "You can trust me. I won't tattle."

"Aren't you supposed to live in the girls' toilets?" Draco snapped. "What are you doing here?"

She didn't seem upset by his rudeness. He had been told she was overly sensitive, but perhaps she was used to such treatment. She just shrugged. "It's boring during the holidays. I was just looking for something out of the ordinary. And I found you. So tell me what's wrong."

Draco shook his head. For some reason he didn't feel like being rude to this pathetic girl anymore. She was dead anyway. She wasn't worth it. "I... I really can't."

But it didn't seem that Myrtle was going to take no for an answer. "Did someone say something to you to make you upset? Was someone mean to you? Or was it just something that you ate?" She fixed him with an assessing stare. "It doesn't look like it was something you ate," she pronounced.

Suddenly Draco just felt so very tired. "It wasn't something I ate."

"Then someone was mean to you!" Myrtle moved closer again as she cooed this conclusion. "You must tell me who it was and what they said. I want to make you feel better."

Draco swallowed. "You can't. And you wouldn't like me, if... I mean, usually I'm the one who says mean things."

Myrtle shook her head stubbornly. "Oh, I know all about you, Draco Malfoy." She laughed as Draco gaped. "That's right, I know all about you. All the girls have crushes on you, and they're very right to do so because you are very cute, but you're usually not very nice. Still, you don't seem like as bad a person as they say."

That was all Draco could take. He let go of the stability of the sink and rushed out of the bathroom, listening to Myrtle's very vocal protests grow distant as he ran. He headed right for his room, hoping he'd make it there without incident. He was sick and had better spend the day in bed.

- - -

That night, Draco dreamed of Harry Potter.

He didn't remember any details, thankfully.

Still, all the same, he had dreamt of Harry fucking Potter. Draco was sure of it.

He awoke with a start and a headache. It seemed like things were only going to get worse from here on in.

He briefly considered going to Madam Pomfrey, but he knew it was a waste. And he had things to do today, headache be damned.

Draco assumed that, because he had heard no commotion, Dumbledore had not yet drunk the mead. But he couldn't be sure, so he decided show up at breakfast, just to keep up appearances. And to confirm that everything was normal--or as normal as it could be, with all the school away and the scent of quiet fear everywhere.

He tried not to let the anticipation get to him as he walked from the Dungeons to the Great Hall. He needed to keep a cool head. He steeled himself for the chaos that might await.

But everything was as it had been the day before. The room was still festively decorated, warm breakfast food on offer as always. Students were eating quietly, and even Slughorn was there, sipping on a cup of tea, looking like he had overindulged more than a little the night before.

Draco made his way to his usual table, but at the last minute he decided to bypass the actual eating of breakfast. It was enough that he had shown his face. The smell of eggs too quickly brought back memories of his encounter with the bathroom sink the day before. He studiously avoided even the hallway that led to the toilets where he had met Moaning Myrtle.

And instead found himself, much earlier than intended, facing the blank wall that would become the Room of Requirement.

This was it. He didn't have another plan B. He'd have to just wait to see if the bottle found its way to Dumbledore. Hopefully the old man hadn't suddenly decided to try out abstinence. It would be rude to refuse a gift from a fellow teacher, and everyone appreciated Madam Rosmerta's brew. No, it would work eventually. It ought to.

Draco's stomach twisted again, much like it had the day before, except this time edged with the emptiness of not having eaten for a day. He sank to the floor and leaned against the wall. The Room of Requirement wasn't going anywhere, and he was here an hour earlier than usual anyway.

But he'd have to face the cabinet soon. The poison might not ever make it to Dumbledore, and beside this plan was more... impressive. Clever. Worthy of a Malfoy.

Whatever the fuck that meant.

But that was just the headache--and the stomach ache--talking.

Draco stared at the sunlight filtering through into the hallway from a tall, arched window. Patterns of dusty, cold light played on the floor and wall across from him. He'd just rest for a moment, and think. Try to clear his head. Maybe he could come up with a Plan C.

Maybe he could sneak into Dumbledore's office and steal the mead.

Draco shook his head. What the fuck? Why would he want to do that? He wasn't going to be discovered, that mead couldn't be linked to him, and if it worked, it worked. It wasn't graceful, but it would do the job.

And he had all the way through to the New Year to work on the cabinet. Blessedly alone, with no interruption. Everyone safely at home with their families. It was the ideal time for him to do this. He missed the holidays a little, but it couldn't be helped. Though the thought of his mother in Malfoy mansion with just the house elves... it didn't seem right.

He'd meant to owl her, to wish her a happy Christmas, but he'd been too distracted with everything else.

Draco stood. He'd put in a few hours on the cabinet, and maybe he'd make some real progress this time. Then he'd write to his mother. She'd want to hear from him.

- - -

Draco woke up in a cold sweat. It was 4AM. The Dungeons were silent, except for the occasional whistling of wind at the edges of the windows. He pulled himself up in bed, ripping off his clammy pajama top and pulling the warm blanket around him. Outside the window he could see that snow was falling--large, wet flakes forced sideways by the wind. The sky was purple-white, eerily lit with predawn sunlight. Draco shivered. He could feel the dementors in the air, as if their very presence could seep through the window cracks. Perhaps it could.

He wondered if this was what it was like in Azkaban. Only more so, probably. He hadn't thought about his father for a long time. Perhaps weeks. He couldn't think about his father as a prisoner. It made no sense. Lucius Malfoy in someone else's power? In a cold cell somewhere? Death awaiting him, or worse, insanity?

And it all lay on Draco to save him. The fate of both his parents depended on him. And of course, his own life as well. He had tried not to think about it, but in the empty silence of early morning, there it was. Unavoidable. The only truth, really. It crawled into Draco's stomach and clamped down--a cold, horrible feeling. Draco pulled his legs up, so that he was holding himself tightly, and began to cry.

Even though he was crying, the tightness in his throat seemed to grow and grow, a terrible ache that would never leave, closing down on his throat and stomach as silent sobs shook his body and salty tears wet his lashes and cheeks.

Minutes passed, silent except for his sobbing and the ticking of the old, wooden clock his mother had given him, which sat on the desk next to his bed. He used to believe the clock was magical, somehow, in some way that he hadn't yet figured out, but now he recognized that all it did was keep time, counting away the minutes until he failed.

Finally he forced himself to stop sobbing. His crying didn't even feel good, it didn't help with anything. It just made him feel awful. So powerless he couldn't breathe. What was happening to him? The scariest thing was that he didn't recognize anything about his life, and he didn't recognize himself at all.

Taking forced, even breaths, Draco slowly removed the blanket. He put his feet on the rug, feeling the hard stone beneath the soft woven cloth. He tried to imagine watching himself from above, so that he could truly see himself as a stranger. It didn't really work, but just the idea of it calmed him.

He walked over to the dresser and found clothes for the day. Four o'clock in the morning was not normally a time he would wander the halls of Hogwarts, but he was awake. He could go to the room and concentrate on the cabinet for a few hours before breakfast. This morning students would begin to return from their holidays, refreshed and relaxed. Draco could feel the abyss between himself and them growing. Soon he would be a world away.

- - -

Draco was livid.

Since the other students had returned from break, Draco had made an extended attempt to feel nothing. He focussed on his task and his goal, calculated possibilities and options, but didn't let anything in beyond that. He was above it all.

It was a method that seemed to be working.

That is, until now.

Now, all thoughts of the cabinet and the mead and the whole damn task disappeared in the face of Potter's audacity. He wanted to stick that Bezoar where Potter wouldn't be likely to forget it. This was unbelievable. Potter was the smuggest, most arrogant wanker who had ever existed, and he needed to be put in his place. And Draco would be the one to do it.

Potions was Draco's subject. Snape hadn't just played favorites because Draco was a Slytherin or a Malfoy. No, Potions was Draco's domain.

Or at least it used to be.

Now he was covered in foul-smelling failed antidote, and Potter was teacher's pet, and for what? Because Potter wouldn't admit his own pathetic failure? For "cheek"? Fuck that!

As soon as they were out of that room, Potter was going to find himself hexed to high heavens. He wouldn't know what hit him. Enough was enough.

Giving Potter a final glare, Draco turned on his heel, heading for the classroom door. Most of the class had filtered out, but Potter of course was taking his own sweet time of it. Couldn't be because he knew what awaited him. Potter just wasn't that smart.

Draco waited just outside the doorway. Impatient, he started pacing and choosing hexes. So many ways to make Potter pay.

But after a couple of moments, it was clear that Potter wasn't coming out, or at least not any time soon. The rest of the Potions students were long gone. What was Potter up to? Could it be possible that he was staying after class to kiss up to Slughorn even more? Unbelievable. This was new levels of pathetic, even for Potter.

Draco stopped pacing, and edged quietly toward the door. Maybe he could hear what they were saying.

Potter was asking something, and oh yes he was definitely kissing up to Slughorn, just as Draco suspected. The bastard. But Potter's voice was too quiet, and Draco couldn't quite make out the words. Frustrated, he glanced to his left and right to be sure he was alone, and then bent down to listen through the keyhole.

Now Slughorn was answering, but his voice was even quieter than Potter's. In fact, Slughorn was whispering--an urgent, angry whisper. What on earth could Slughorn have to whisper to Potter about? '  
And then Slughorn's voice rose. Not much, but enough anger fueled Slughorn's tone so that Draco could pick up both the emotion and the words. "If you've seen that memory, Harry... I don't know anything--anything--about Horcruxes."

Draco's breath caught in his throat. He didn't understand a word of what Slughorn had said, but he knew, now, positively, that there was something more going on here. Slughorn sounded terrified and angry, and Harry sounded desperate.

Slughorn's voice rose even louder. He was almost shouting at Potter now. "Then you were wrong, weren't you? Wrong!"

Just in time, Draco realized Slughorn was headed for the door. Dashing down the hall a few feet, Draco sank to the floor. Quickly, he pulled out his potions book and struck a casual pose. Though his heart was beating fast in his chest, he was surely the picture of relaxed disinterest.

Slughorn emerged into the hallway looking white as a sheet. Draco watched out of the corner of his eye as Slughorn headed away from where Draco sat, walking much more quickly then one would expect a man of his size could.

The moment Slughorn disappeared down the hall, Draco stood and walked in the other direction, as fast as he could. The desire to hex Potter was gone. All of his anger at Potter suddenly seemed inconsequential, replaced now not by the cabinet or the Dark Lord, but rather by one question, and he didn't even know why it was important.

What were horcruxes?


	4. The Word

**Chapter 4: The Word**

Draco slammed the book shut. Nothing. He couldn't find a single passage about horcruxes. Worthless library. Even the Restricted Section was a joke.

The Hogwarts library didn't begin to compare to his father's collection of books at home. The answer was bound to be there, in one of the many oversized volumes which lined the walls of his father's study.

But Draco wasn't at home, and so he had spent hours here, in this pathetic excuse for a library, looking for any mention of horcruxes, any mention at all. And so far, he'd come up with a fat nothing. His eyes stung from scanning pages for the word. Horcrux. Horcruxes. It was burned in his mind even though he had never seen it. He took out his quill and wrote the word on his parchment, just so he could see it for real. _Horcrux._ That must be how it was spelled.

He didn't have the slightest idea what it meant. And more importantly, he didn't understand at all why he cared. Maybe it was just because it wasn't the cabinet. It was something else to think about. A relief, and yet quickly becoming equally frustrating. It was another dead end. Another question he couldn't answer.

To hell with Harry Potter and Slughorn and their damn horcruxes. He was beginning to hate them all as much as the cabinet. He should never have listened to a damn word Potter said.

One more book. He'd look at this one more book and then stop. He opened the heavy cover. Dust wafted from the pages into the air, making him cough.

Draco had taken a seat in the far corner of the library so that he wouldn't be disturbed while he poured through the large pile of books in front of him. He had pulled anything at all that had seemed like it might have to do with dark magic. For surely horcruxes were somehow connected to dark magic. Slughorn's tone had left Draco no doubt on that front.

He'd been using the sunlight from a nearby window to read, but the light had slowly darkened into a deep grey, and it was getting harder for him to make out the words. The book's elaborate script danced and blurred before his eyes. This was useless.

From the waning light, Draco could tell it must be dinner time already, and still he had found nothing. What a waste of hours. His time was more valuable than this.

Draco suddenly had the urge to rip the heavy pages in his hands to shreds. He closed the book quickly before he gave in. He didn't need to be explaining that one to Snape.

Snape. Snape would now what horcruxes were, Draco was sure of it. But there was no way Draco was going to ask him. Snape was already on his case enough, trying to find out what he had planned for Dumbledore.

For a moment Draco thought about just telling Snape everything. Snape would probably not only know about horcruxes, but he'd also know what Draco was doing wrong with the cabinet. Maybe with Snape's help he could finally get the damn thing fixed.

But no. There was no way Draco would give Snape the pleasure. Or the power.

Though, to be honest, Draco wasn't even sure anymore why he shouldn't confide in Snape. Because if Draco failed, then none of this would matter. He'd be dead at the Dark Lord's hand, or at least by the Dark Lord's wand. Was his pride worth that?

Draco hadn't asked for any of this. This whole year had been a hell he didn't deserve, and the world owed him. This wasn't how his life should be. It wasn't fair.

Maybe he'd go find Pansy and give her some of the attention she clearly craved. She had grown increasingly impatient with him since she'd returned from winter break. Draco suspected that she might even be contemplating moving on to Blaise. Draco hadn't been planning on interfering, as it had meant that Pansy had stopped nagging him. But now Draco felt like living a little. It was time he had at least just a taste of the way things were _supposed_ to be. Time to put Blaise in his place.

No doubt Pansy was at dinner with the rest of them. He'd make a late, attention-getting entrance, resume his rightful place, and then get Pansy to sneak off with him.

But when Draco got to the Great Hall, he found Pansy and Blaise fully engaged in an impenetrable flirting match. They were talking about the upcoming apparition lessons, and arguing about who would succeed in apparating first. They had apparently even made a bet over it. 

Draco thought about joining in--no doubt he'd be quicker to learn the skill than either of them, and so he might as well make some money off of it. But something about the way that Pansy was fluttering her eyelashes at Blaise made Draco hold back. He clearly wasn't needed here. He sat back and watched the proceedings with feigned disinterest.

It would be excellent to be able to apparate. In fact, at that moment Draco wanted nothing more than to be able to apparate far, far away from the Slytherin table in the Great Hall. He'd been there for several minutes now, and Blaise and Pansy still had barely appeared to notice his arrival. Crabbe and Goyle weren't meeting his eyes either. No doubt they didn't want to be drafted into another evening of standing guard while Draco worked in the Room of Requirement.

Anger burned in Draco's stomach. Sometime, while he had been doing exactly what he had to do, they had all moved on, without him. And now there was no going back.

And so Draco found himself once again leaving his circle of friends, without explanation, and heading out alone. He didn't want dinner. He rarely had an appetite these days. One of the few things Pansy had said to him recently was that he was getting thinner. He hadn't been able to tell whether this was a compliment or not. His trousers hung lower on his hips. If he had gone home for the holidays, no doubt his mother would have taken him to have new clothes fitted. But as it was, even the feel of his clothes reminded him how he had changed, how everything had changed, so quickly. His very body had changed.

Draco didn't have anywhere to go, and he didn't feel like wandering the grounds. He found himself in the empty Slytherin common room. A fire burned in the fireplace, flames licking at one another, glowing bright white, with warm threads of orange licking at the dark shadows beyond them.

He bypassed the comfortable chairs and couches, though their green and silver velvet cushions beckoned, and sank to the ground directly in front of the fire, arranging himself cross legged on the stone floor. He stared into the heart of the fire, breathing in the scent of smoke and of burning wood. He wanted to touch the flames; he even reached out as if to do so, but something held him back.

Draco wanted to be the one to change things, but he didn't know how.

He had so few options. The necklace had failed, as had the poison, apparently. The cabinet was still the main path before him. Why was his life dependent on a damn piece of furniture?

He'd have laughed, if he wasn't too afraid the laughter would turn into tears.

When he hadn't been looking, he had been born into a war. It wasn't his choice, and he saw that now, in the fire, in the dancing flames. 

But he couldn't allow things to go on like this. Something had to give.

There was a curious scent to the air in Snape's office. Heavy, like parchment, but not musty. Maybe like wax, like a candle that had burned too long. It made Draco think of staying up late, finishing an assignment. Perversely, it felt safe, like a blanket. Draco wanted to wrap himself up in it.

But he was anything but safe. And he couldn't stay for long.

It was 3 AM. Draco had pushed the door open certain that he'd trigger a thousand wards, or perhaps that he'd find Snape asleep in his office, right there at his desk. He wouldn't have been surprised to learn that Snape slept in his office every night.

"Lumos," he whispered, his body tense.

In the soft glow of the spell, he saw that he was alone. Snape was nowhere in sight. There was nothing but warm silence and this safe, comforting smell.

And books. So many books.

Draco's heart beat fast in his chest, hammering away as he looked. He scanned titles, searching for books that wouldn't be on the shelves of the library, books he hadn't seen before, or perhaps ones that his father would never allow him to open.

He pulled a particularly large, ominous looking volume off the shelf immediately above Snape's desk. Hopefully it wouldn't be one of those books that groaned or started to yell.

The book opened noiselessly. Black scrawl graced heavy cream colored pages. Horcruxes. He needed something, anything, any clue at all. He still knew nothing, not a single thing, about horcruxes. But the word wouldn't leave him alone.

This book spoke of curses and traditions that surrounded curses. Some of the details made Draco shudder despite himself. What would Snape do with information like this?

A foolish question. Snape was a Death Eater, just like Draco's father. They had uses for these spells. He was surprised that Snape kept such a book in his office here at Hogwarts. Wouldn't this give away his allegiance to the Dark Lord?

Dark spell after dark spell, some written in languages that Draco didn't recognize. Languages not mentioned in Hogwarts. And for all he knew, one of these unintelligible words meant "Horcrux." But fat lot of good that would do him.

He closed the book with a bang, and then caught his breath. Shit. That was too loud. He needed to keep himself under control. He couldn't be careless, he couldn't get caught.

Draco took a stilling breath, and cast a silencing charm, just in case, before choosing another book. This one was small and red, the leather cover soft with age, with the title embossed on the front in gold. It was simply titled: Powerful Spells.

Oh, and he was in luck. It appeared to be a series of entries in alphabetical order. Excellent. He flipped through the pages. They were feather light. E... F... G... H.

Homorphus

Horn Tongue

Fuck. Nothing.

Didn't that fucking figure. From Homorphus to Horn Tongue. Maybe Draco had hallucinated the whole thing. Maybe there was no such thing as horcruxes. Maybe he was really, really losing it. Cracking under the pressure. For example, what on earth was he doing here, instead of in the Room of Requirement? Horcruxes weren't going to save his parents' lives. Or his own.

Draco sank into the leather chair in front of Snape's desk. It was surprisingly comfortable; he'd have imagined that Snape would have the most uncomfortable chair possible, just to make some sort of statement.

But it was quite comfortable, the leather soft and fine. The wood was refined, the lines fluid, like the furniture in his mother's sitting room. Snape was full of surprises.

But unfortunately, his office had as of yet yielded no surprises about horcruxes. If the damn things existed at all.

Draco looked at the clock. It was still only 4.30, hours before anyone would be up. He had time, and there were many more books to look through. He was here now, he might as well follow through on this insane goose chase.

He pulled down a large pile of books and dug in.

At 5.30 in the morning, he had found nothing, and he was beginning to feel nauseous from lack of sleep. He had a class at 8 am. He'd have to depend on tea to get him through to his free block, when he could slip away and get some sleep.

One last book lay in front of him. Old and black, with faded silver embossing, it didn't look particularly promising, though it did have a fairly impressive title. Magick Moste Evile.

Draco scanned the index.

And caught his breath. There it was. Horcrux. In the introduction.

It existed. He wasn't crazy.

He flipped quickly to the beginning and scanned the pages. He could hear his heart beat as if it were a scared bird, flapping its wings desperately inside his chest. And he still didn't know why he cared.

He read, his breath still caught in his throat, barely taking in the meaning of the words.

"Of the horcrux, wickedest of magical inventions, we shall not speak nor give direction…"

And that was it. Not another word on the subject.

Draco slammed the book closed. It trembled a little bit. He'd bet anything it would be moaning if it weren't for his silencing spell. How overblown. A whole lot of fuss for a book that had no information of help.

But now he knew there was information to be had. Draco rather doubted that horcruxes were truly the "wickedest of magical inventions," but still, it all begged the question:

What on earth would Harry Potter want with horcruxes?

Draco's mind began filling in the possible answers very quickly as he slipped out of Snape's office and headed back to the Dungeons. Cold, grey morning light was just seeping through the windows when he slipped into his bed, wide awake. 

Snape's lecture today was interminable, and the air in the Potions room was still and stifling.

Draco stared blankly at his parchment, on which he had carefully written out one word, over and over.

_Horcrux._

Now that he had slightly more information, the word held a new set of questions. What would the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, want with something so dark that even Snape didn't have any details about it?

There was one answer, staring Draco in the face, but it somehow rung wrong to Draco. And yet there it was. If Harry fucking Potter was meant to kill Voldemort, as the public opinion proclaimed, then dark magic was certainly one way to go about it.

But would Potter really wield something so dark? Didn't that just defeat the purpose of his whole oh so holy battle against all that is evil, aka the Death Eaters and Voldemort? Not that Draco bought into such a simple rendering, but he thought the other side did, and Potter was their savior.

Draco traced the word with his finger. The parchment was smooth. The ink was still drying, though, and stained just slightly, little grey black lines seeping into his skin.

Maybe Potter didn't know what he was getting into. That was more than likely. Potter hadn't been exposed to dark magic the way Draco had been, all his life. He probably didn't get it. Didn't understand the implications. He'd sounded so desperate, begging Slughorn for information about horcruxes. Yes, he didn't have a clue.

But then, neither did Draco. He knew horcruxes were dark, and he could hypothesize that they had power that would aid Potter in his quest against the Dark Lord. But that was where his knowledge ended.

He tried to imagine Potter as a powerful dark wizard, someone who could raise his hand, whisper some horcrux-related spell, and with that bring about Voldemort's demise.

Preposterous. How'd Potter end up being the savior of the wizarding world anyway? Just because he'd made it through a few encounters with the Dark Lord alive? Draco had now faced the Dark Lord himself, and lived to tell the tale. So he hadn't had the opportunity to be hexed by the Dark Lord as a baby. Did that really make all the difference?

Draco closed his eyes for a moment, and then opened them to stare at the parchment.

_Horcrux._

He had been looking at the word for so long that they were starting to look like gibberish.

Now, instead, he wrote: _Voldemort._

Draco prided himself in his elegant pensmanship. In inky black, Voldemort's name looked as deathly and foreboding as it possibly could. But like horcrux, it was just a word, just letters, just a series of lines and curves.

Carefully, Draco wrote one more word. _Potter._

Harry Potter.

These names, all three of them now mattered, even if Draco didn't know exactly why. Laid out before him, as words, as black lines on parchment. Horcrux, Voldemort, Potter.

If Draco's conclusion was right--as was most often the case--Potter intended to kill Voldemort with horcruxes, whatever they were. And the world believed he could do it. In contrast, Draco was at Voldemort's mercy, his secret tool to kill Dumbledore, or to fail trying. More likely the latter. Draco's chest tightened.

This wasn't power, Draco realized, with sudden clarity. This was the exact opposite.

Suddenly he was overcome with desire to scratch out the beautifully written Voldemort, or to blot it out with a pool of ink. He settled for crumpling up the parchment. But the desperate feeling clawing at his chest only grew stronger as he looked up to find Potter's curious gaze on him.

Draco resisted the urge to grab Potter by the throat. Instead, he stared right ahead, ignoring Potter with the most supercilious smirk he could summon. To hell with Harry Potter and his horcruxes, and to hell with Voldemort too.


	5. The Hallway

**Chapter 5: The Hallway**

Draco felt eyes on him the moment he entered the common room. It was a prickly sensation, being watched like that. This was not the adoring gaze of besotted first years, but something else, something more intrusive.

He realised quite quickly that the offending gazer was Pansy. And while maybe he should have been pleased that she was focused on him rather than Zabini, he had a feeling that the look in her eyes did not bode well.

She wasn't the only one looking. In fact, the whole little group was sitting there, in the corner, looking at him. Zabini whispered something in Pansy's ear. Crabbe and Goyle looked distinctly uncomfortable.

Pansy stood and flounced toward him, a little sway in her walk that he felt certain was for Zabini, not him. Draco was even more sure of this as she descended upon him, slipping her arm into his and saying, "Draco, dear. We're so glad you're here. We want to talk to you."

Annoyance tainted with something very bitter pooled in Draco's stomach. Pansy smelled like lavender and vanilla, sweet and cloying. It made him want to pull away from her violently, to leave the common room and Pansy and the whole lot of them behind. But instead he let Pansy guide him to the corner of the common room, where her court awaited, unpleasant curiosity plastered all over their faces. Draco noted distantly that this used to be _his_ court, but somewhere along the line he had been dethroned. The fools.

Pansy settled Draco into an elegant, cushioned chair. Mahogany and velvet, it was one of his favorites. He had spent many comfortable evenings sitting in it by the fire, with Pansy leaning up against his knees while he ignored the inane chatter of his classmates. But now the chair was set conspicuously at the center of a circle, and they were all eyeing him as if he might explode.

Once she seemed satisfied that Draco was seated and not about to bolt, Pansy took her place next to Zabini. She held her head high, her eyes open in abundant concern. "Draco, we're all quite worried about you." She looked to the others for support, and they nodded, especially Zabini, who had a disgustingly presumptuous look in his eye. Draco wanted nothing less than to punch him.

Pansy clasped her hands before continuing her clearly prepared speech. "We know that you feel you've been entrusted with some special task, but being that you won't tell us what it is, we're at a bit of a loss. And, to be honest," she swallowed a little, as if to underscore her earnestness, "we're not entirely sure anymore what type of task you would have been given, or why you would have been chosen in particular." Pansy brushed her hair behind her ear, and Draco thought distractedly that the gesture reminded him somehow of his mother. "If it turned out to be something that you've just... misrepresented, for our benefit, then... you can tell us." Here Pansy paused dramatically. "We're your friends, Draco. We'll forgive you. We know it's been a difficult year for... your family."

Draco felt a flush rise to his cheeks. He wanted to laugh at this entire situation, but he didn't have it in him. His eyes started to burn again. He blinked once, to get himself under control, and stood. "I'm not making it up, Pansy." He used his most cutting tone, and hoped to Merlin that in the dim firelight of the common room no one would notice how their little coup d'etat had thrown him. "I assure you, I have a task to do, and it's an important one. If you choose not to help me..." now his gaze fell coldly on Crabbe and Goyle, "I'll remember that for the future."

Crabbe shook his head slightly, although he wouldn't meet Draco's eyes. Crabbe had always been just a bit smarter than Goyle. "No, Draco, we'll help," he said quietly, still staring at the rug. Goyle didn't second this statement, but didn't disagree.

Draco nodded slightly in acknowledgement, and eyed the others. They all seemed subdued, almost as if they were scared of him. His performance had passed muster. Good. He settled back into his chair, smirking. After a moment of uncomfortable silence, Pansy and Zabini returned to their flirting, and the others broke up into quiet, self conscious conversation. Draco pulled out a book from his bag and pretended to read.

Draco was angrier than ever. His anger had now settled on the figure of one Harry Potter. Potter, who dared tell him how he should handle his interpersonal relationships, Potter who had no fucking idea what Draco was facing.

Potter, who thought he was invulnerable because of his stupid little friends.

To think the sanctimonious prick had the nerve to eavesdrop on him, and then to instruct him on how to deal with Crabbe and Goyle. Potter had no clue what it was to be Draco, what Draco had to deal with every day. While Potter and his friends were chummily hunting out the truth about horcruxes, Draco had to fight for his life alone. And why did Potter care about what Draco was doing anyway? Since when had Potter become Crabbe and Goyle's advocate? This was the second time Draco had discovered Potter sticking his unwanted nose in Draco's business this year. Didn't he have other horcrux-related things to be thinking about?

So Draco was now more furious with Potter than ever, and as a result he'd been coming to the Room of Requirement in every spare moment. He had to beat Potter, and this was how he'd do it.

This morning he'd even come without a guard. Crabbe and Goyle had finally rebelled. Despite their lukewarm proclamation of loyalty during that little Slytherin intervention in the common room, it seemed that they had seen the tide turning. Not that they had the guts to tell Draco to his face that they were abandoning ship.

Maybe he should have handled them differently. Maybe Potter had been right; if he'd confided in them, they might have been more willing to help.

Ha. Not likely. Why was he even wasting time contemplating Potter's know-nothing opinion? Draco was no bloody Gryffindor, and neither were Crabbe and Goyle. Nor would either have been his choice for bosom confidante, if such a thing were forced on him.

But in the end it didn't matter whether Crabbe and Goyle were trustworthy or not. In the end it came down to the fact that Draco was a Slytherin and a Malfoy, and he needed to do this alone.

So this morning he had awoken early and made his way on his own through the hushed halls of Hogwarts to the Room of Requirement.

The room felt especially hollow that morning. It always felt empty and cold to Draco, like a husk or a shell created for one purpose only, without a life beyond that moment. He didn't know whether it felt the same to everyone, but to him it was always a desperate, vacant place. And this morning it felt like the most desolate place on earth.

The ceilings were high, with stone, windowless walls surrounding him and stretching up and up. The cabinet was always waiting for him there, looming and immovable. He spent half his time each day at a worktable nearby, with a few spellbooks, and half his time kneeling at the cabinet, hoping he'd finally get it right. His knees ached from constantly being pressed against the cold, hard stone.

He'd knelt there for two hours this morning with no success. Spell after spell failed, each one more complex than the last. As the minutes ticked on, Draco felt panic begin to flutter in his chest.

He was hungry. He had skipped breakfast altogether, since food seemed trivial and he had no desire to ever see the faces of his classmates again. All he'd wanted was to be in the room, to finally fucking get somewhere with the cabinet, to show Potter and Pansy and everyone else too.

But now, after hours facing the cabinet and the hollow room, all he wanted to do was scream. He wanted to break the cabinet into a million pieces.

He was going to fail. In his gut he knew it.

And Harry Fucking Potter, boy who could do everything because he was too much of an idiot to realize he couldn't, would waltz right up to Voldemort with an army of horcruxes, whatever the fuck those were, and kill him with one swoop of his hand.

No. There was no way Draco would let that happen. He'd rather anything than that, he'd rather fucking kill the Dark Lord himself.

Draco caught his breath. The cabinet stood before him, smooth and impassive, seemingly unaware of the thought which had just filled Draco's mind so that there was no room for anything else.

Slowly, Draco stood. He half expected to be struck dead by Voldemort just for thinking such a thought. He stepped back, away from the cabinet. The cabinet stared back at him, as if a deadly witness. Some part of Draco's mind imagined that the cabinet had already communicated his treachery to Voldemort, and it would all be over for him before it even began.

Draco stepped falteringly back and back, his eyes still glued on the cabinet.

He knew only one thing. He would be the one to kill the Dark Lord. He _needed_ to be the one. He would not leave this to Harry Potter.

And if his parents died as a result?

Draco's throat tightened. He felt as hollow as the room. He was about to risk his parents' lives. He should fucking feel something.

This was crazy. Pure insanity. Pansy was right to be concerned; he was clearly delusional.

With all the will he could summon, he turned away from the cabinet. He walked slowly toward the door. He had no lookout; he'd just have to hope that no one would see him leave.

As his hand grasped the doorknob, his eye caught something strange to his right--a pattern of light that he was ready to swear hadn't been there before. Sure enough, cool yellow sunlight was streaming in from an arched window, playing in soft patterns on the floor, and he was sure that there had been no window there when he entered this morning, nor any of the times he had been in this room. There had only been another inescapably tall stone wall.

He walked disbelievingly toward the window, which was cut into the wall of a very long hallway that also most certainly had not been there before. Cursing under his breath, Draco peered out of the window into an empty, snow covered courtyard. A small, barren tree stood at its center, alone, bowed under the weight of snow.

Draco stood and watched the little tree for a moment. His mind raced. Was the tree real? Was any of this real? He smudged away frost from the window pane. The glass felt cool and solid to his touch, and when he took his fingers away they were smudged with dirt. It seemed real enough.

Carefully, as if it all might disappear, Draco turned away from the window to continue down the hallway. It narrowed slightly and bent at a right angle before coming to a dead end. The walls were unadorned, and there was only one piece of furniture, at the very far end. A bookcase.

Draco knelt before the bookcase, on a soft rug that seemed as if it had been created for that very purpose. The bookcase was filled with old, leather bound books. He looked at them closely, barely believing what he was seeing. Some of the books Draco thought he recognized from his father's study. Others he had never seen before.

He read a few of the titles aloud, the sound of his voice confirming that he was not dreaming or hallucinating.

_Secrets of the Soul. Darker Magic. Splitting Apart: Myth or Possibility?_

Draco ran his finger across the bindings. He knew, with a strange, undeniable certainty, that inside these books he'd find the answers he was looking for. And just as surely, he knew that after he'd read the contents of these books, there would be no turning back.

Taking a breath, Draco pulled the farthest book down--a slim, simple-looking volume--and began to read.

So now he knew what horcruxes were. Pieces of your soul, broken off, with implications for power that were hard to comprehend. But what did Potter want with them? Did he think that he needed that level of power to take down Voldemort? Or did he just want to secure the golden Potter soul for posterity?

If Potter thought he could make a horcrux, than maybe Draco could too. Maybe that's what he needed to do to get out of all of this. It would give him something to wield over all of them. Voldemort. Snape. His father. Potter.

The idea was appealing, and not just because of the promise of power. The thought of immortality itself beckoned to Draco. It seemed that death swirled all around him, every day, with the faint smell of dementors always in the chilly air. And with the Dark Lord's threat, Draco felt his mortality more than he was sure any sixteen year old should. Death seemed almost inevitable, closing in around him with the edge of panic each time he failed.

But if he made his own rules, if he succeeded in creating a horcrux--and here the room seemed to promise all but step by step instructions--then everything would be different.

Draco carefully closed the book he had been reading. He was afraid to stop reading, to leave the room, for he didn't know if he would ever be able to find his way back. He had only made his way through a few of the books, but he knew hours had slipped by, and he would be missed. His stomach had long passed asking for food, with a slight giddiness and dizziness the only signs that he hadn't eaten or drunk for hours and hours. If he kept focusing on his reading, he could hold his body at bay.

But wait. Could he remove these books from the room? Or maybe if he worded the question just right, and wanted it badly enough, he could find his way back here. It wasn't really any different from needing to fix the cabinet. And if anything, he needed this more.

Feeling somewhat calmer, he slipped one Slytherin green volume into his bag, and stood. He had a new plan. And even the Room of Requirement felt different. Instead of seeming cold and endless, it now seemed cool and centering, a space apart. A space where he could think. He would come back.

No one saw him enter the hallway. He was glad not to have to face Crabbe and Goyle.

Once outside of the room, though, it all began to sink in. What was he thinking? Fuck, what was he playing at? This was his parents' lives at stake as well as his own. Panic crawled back into his chest and began to claw its way through his throat. The suddenness of it caught him off guard. He was going to be sick again.

The boys' toilet was right there and he pushed his way in, glad to find it empty. He tried to keep himself calm but the hand that reached to turn the water on was shaking. He splashed cold water on his face and willed his body under his control. If he couldn't control his own body how could he hope to achieve any of the things he had planned--the cabinet or the horcruxes?

He looked at himself in the mirror. So thin. So pale. Dark circles like bruises under his eyes. His hair, far from its usually carefully coiffed state, was messy and wilted. It looked worse than Potter's.

With that thought, Draco began to laugh--a manic laugh that came complete with tears as he sank to his knees in front of the mirror. It was no use trying to fight the tears off this time; they came with a will of their own, hot and stinging and bitter. He closed his eyes and let them stream down his face, his arms clutching his own now skinny chest just to hold himself together. If he let go, he was sure he'd break into a million jagged pieces there on the cold tiled floor. 

Draco just sat there, holding himself tightly and crying. It felt so good to cry, good and bad all at once, and he was so caught up with the release of it that he didn't realize when he was no longer alone.

"You came back!" Moaning Myrtle sounded positively gleeful to have discovered Draco crying on the toilet floor. Draco saw her floating toward him through his tears, but he was too exhausted. He couldn't bring himself to stop crying. He just stared at her, and ineffectually swiped at the tears on his face with his sleeve. New tears replaced them within moments.

"You poor dear!" Myrtle went on, seeming to realize that he was in no state to greet her. "What's wrong? You can tell me! Is it about that red-haired boy?"

Draco swallowed and tried to stop crying. He shook his head slightly. Finally he managed a few words. "What red-haired boy?" He didn't really care what the answer was, but somehow Moaning Myrtle distracted him, and he wanted to know what she was on about.

"That Weasley boy," she replied. "The one who was poisoned in Professor Slughorn's office. Was he a friend of yours? I haven't heard yet if he's dead or not. I hope not. He's quite cute."

Draco rose, his tears having suddenly stopped. "No, he's not a friend of mine," he said, as numbness took over his body. "The opposite, really. I hate that Weasel."

Moaning Myrtle looked at him, shock imprinted on her round face. She seemed to be thinking about what she could possibly say in reply, but Draco didn't give her the chance. He walked out into the hall, once again disregarding Myrtle's vocal protests that he should leave so soon. He didn't care what she thought. He didn't care about anything.

Away from Moaning Myrtle and the toilets and the Room of Requirement, Draco glanced at his watch. It was time for dinner. He ran his hand through his hair and headed for the Great Hall.


	6. The Note

Draco sat at the table, surrounded by his classmates, and ate. He ate some of everything that was before him--roast chicken, glazed potatoes, and freshly baked rolls. He felt himself becoming warm and full, more than he had in days. He didn't like the feeling. It was unfamiliar and uncomfortable. But for some reason, he kept eating.

Gossip swirled around him, all of it about Weasley and the poison. Apparently, Potter and Weasley had been having breakfast with Slughorn, and had drunk the mead then. Or at least Weasley had drunk the mead. Although Potter was nowhere in sight in the Great Hall, Draco was sure he'd somehow not encountered the mead himself. Draco would have heard if the Boy Who Lived was also at death's door. No one would even be mentioning Weasley, no doubt, if their golden boy had also fallen.

It appeared that Weasley had not died--or at least, not yet. He must not have had much of the drink, because that was powerful poison; Draco knew that much, since he'd picked it out. As the popular narrative had it, Potter (of course) had gallantly saved Weasley by stuffing a damned bezoar in his mouth, and so Potter was the brave hero, and Weasley was dramatically clinging to life, and might expire at any moment. The way they were talking, Draco couldn't tell whether his housemates wanted him to survive or not. 

With the amount of death that they'd all be facing soon, Draco was surprised to see his housemates all so gleeful at the potential of mortality. Didn't they know death was all around them, just waiting for the moment to strike? Or perhaps they all thought that Potter would be around to stick bezoars in their mouth, too.

Only Draco seemed to see that Potter was no match for the death that hung over all of them. And so perhaps it was fitting that it was Draco who was responsible for this uproar, even if no one knew it--he who had caused them all to realise the finite nature of their own pitiful lives.

He who had almost caused Weasley's death. 

The thought raced around Draco's mind but it didn't have a place to land. He tore into another roll and stared at the soft, fleshy bread.

Enough. He'd had enough.

Draco threw the roll down on the table, pushed his chair back, and stood up. Once again, he felt the desperate need to get away from all people. His housemates paused in their chatter for only a moment as Draco left. They were getting more and more adept at ignoring him, at pretending he didn't exist. Draco wished that they were the ones who didn't exist.

He left the Great Hall, the magical sky storming above him in a deep, angry, stony grey. He had to get away. He needed the night air.

Once outside, he breathed a sigh of relief. Better. The night sky, while still clouded over, was comparatively calmer than the false sky in the Great Hall. Here there was no one to crowd in his space, no conversations that he couldn't help but listen to. If he'd heard Weasley's name one more time, he'd have hit someone, he knew it. Served the bastard right for drinking at 9 AM. And apparently it had been his birthday, too. Well, Weasley never did seem to have much luck.

Now, Draco had a moment to consider the consequences of Weasley's misfortune. The poison had been found, and no doubt disposed of. This meant that Dumbledore would not be drinking the mead. Weasley might still die, but Dumbledore would not. At least, not from the poison. And the locket was already a wash. All of Draco's plans had failed.

Draco walked swiftly toward a stone bench, which was lit up by a warm glow from the window. The rest of the night was dark and raw. It was still cold, with the hint of spring in the air more painful than promising. But Draco needed to be outside.

He pulled the book out of his bag. He couldn't think about Weasley or Dumbledore or the lot of them anymore, better to just read.

Horcruxes.

So far, he had read up on many of the myths surrounding horcruxes, what they were, what they were rumoured to do. But there were some crucial pieces waiting to be filled in. All the books he'd read had danced around the topic of how to make a horcrux. And that was what Draco needed to know.

This book, the one he had grabbed at the last moment, had a concise title: Creating Darkness. He'd chosen it because he thought perhaps it would have the answers he sought.

He opened it carefully. It smelled distinct--not musty, but like night blooming jasmine. Like his mother's garden, rather than his father's library. Like the nights he'd slip outside while his parents were entertaining.

His heart was beating fast, and he didn't know why. This book was different somehow. He ran a finger down the open page, feeling the smooth, crisp paper. It was just a book.

Just like that bottle had just been mead.

Weasley. What an idiot. He wasn't worth the energy it took to think about him. It was entirely Weasley's own fault that he'd ended up almost dead.

The first chapter of the book was entitled "Death and its Many Uses." Something about the wording and the font made Draco shiver. Death really was everywhere. Death Eaters. The Dark Lord. Dumbledore. Weasley. They all were about--or facing--death in one way or the other. Of course horcruxes would be about death too.

He read for a few minutes, scanning for the word horcrux, until he began to grasp the enormity of what he had set out to do. Horcruxes weren't only about death. They _were_ death. They were both life and death. They promised immortal life, but death gave birth to them. He could see why they were so powerful and taboo.

Draco shut the book and closed his eyes, trying to empty his head of thought. He couldn't consider any of this right now. Any promise of a solution was just bringing with it endless webs of complications. Fuck.

After a cold, silent moment, he knew he wasn't alone. He was being watched. Still, he waited before opening his eyes. He heard someone walk toward him, their feet squelching in the wet snow. He opened his eyes to see that Mudblood, Granger, watching him from a mere foot away.

He put the book in his bag quickly. "Do you have a problem?"

She stared at him for a moment before speaking. "I've been watching you," she said.

What the fuck? Where did she get off? Was she trying to scare him? Fat chance she'd have. "Any particular reason?" Draco retorted.

She shook her head, but Draco knew she was only indicating that she wasn't going to answer his question. Supercilious bitch. Granger fixed him with a look, and mirrored his question with one of her own. "What are you up to, out here?"

"Just getting some fresh air, although I don't see how it's any of your business." Draco scowled at her.

"What were you reading?" She asked, ignoring his scowl.

"Now _that_ is definitely none of your business." Draco stood, ready to walk away.

"Harry's on to you, you know," Granger said, softly but menacingly. "And so am I."

Draco took a step toward her that he hoped was threatening. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

She didn't reply, but just looked at him, as if she were studying him. She seemed surprised at what she saw.

"Get lost, Mudblood," Draco said, in his most spiteful voice. "And tell Potter to stay away from me, too." She gazed at him silently for another moment, her face seemingly impassive but her eyes burning in anger, and then turned away, walking back the way she came.

Draco watched her go, suddenly aware that his throat was tight and his stomach on fire.

There was no mistaking the relief that swept through him when he heard the news from his housemates early that next morning. The feeling was palpable and sweet, like the way his mother prepared his tea--milky and comforting--like the start of a new, fresh, clean day.

Weasley had not died.

This meant that no one had yet died. The poison had failed. The locket had failed. No one had died.

He hadn't been hoping for that, but still... maybe he had.

Draco made a list, before heading to breakfast. The list would help him to decide what course of action to follow now, given everything. His hands were still shaking, but his script was careful and measured as he wrote out the two choices:

_Kill Dumbledore_

Kill Voldemort

He had to think this through rationally. He couldn't allow himself emotion, especially not fear. He looked at the two choices, willing the words to make sense, to show him what to do.

To kill both would be wisest. He could kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. Earn the Dark Lord's trust by killing Dumbledore, and perhaps make a horcrux in the process.

But he didn't want to kill both. This was meant to be a new path, determined by him. He wanted to kill only Voldemort. He _needed _to kill only Voldemort, and he needed to do it on his own terms, and no one else's.

He had thought that horcruxes, as powerful as they seemed, would prove to be the key.

But now he wasn't sure it was so simple. After the Weasel... truth be told, Draco wasn't sure he had it in him.

He'd never given killing much thought before this year. His father was a Death Eater--no doubt death was what they talked about at those so-called dinner parties--but he hadn't thought until this year that his future would be the same. He somehow believed that all of the death and politics would be resolved before he had to make a choice about which path to follow. Stupid of him.

Doubt crept back into Draco's stomach, like an ugly, old thing. Inescapable. But he couldn't let it stop him. For now, he would continue with his plan, but with slight revisions. He needed still more information before he made his choice, and he'd have to be very, very careful as he followed this path. His housemates may not have been eager to support him before, but they'd be even less eager to turn on the Dark Lord for him. They weren't ones to sacrifice. Best to let them believe nothing had changed.

Draco left the Dungeons before the other Slytherins, and walked to breakfast alone, kicking at the melting snow with his boots, lost in thought.

At breakfast, Draco picked at his porridge, pushing it around. He no longer felt the need to consume anything but the cup of hot tea before him.

He looked up from the glistening liquid to find eyes on him once again. It was not Granger this time, as she had her head buried in a book, but Potter who was staring at him, unblinkingly, from his seat across the hall at the Gryffindor table. Potter's gaze was angry and direct; there was no subtlety there, which was unsurprising, as this _was_ Potter. Subtlety was not one of his strengths. But still, Potter's glare, however unrefined, made Draco shiver. There was fury in Potter's eyes.

Why were Granger and Potter so concerned with Draco, anyway? Did they know that he'd been behind the poison that almost killed Weasley? There was no way they could even suspect him. Draco had been so careful to cover his tracks. No one had been involved but Madam Rosmerta. But if they didn't know that he'd been the one behind the poison, why had Granger chased him down last night, and why was Potter giving him the evil eye now?

Draco considered going over there, crossing the space to the Gryffindor table and going after Potter. He'd ask Potter what his damn problem was--that is, if Potter could possibly choose one out of the many, as his very existence was a problem in itself. He'd push Potter against the table, telling him to stay out of Draco's business and to keep the Mudblood away from him too.

Draco smiled slightly at the thought as he returned Potter's gaze, and Potter raised his eyebrows in question. It just made Draco want to smack him even more. Only a few months ago, Draco would have followed through on his impulse in an instant. He'd have been over there at the Gryffindor table in a heartbeat, wand drawn, or, better yet, hands on Potter. But now, after one long moment of holding Potter's gaze, Draco looked away, stood, and left the Great Hall. It took all his self restraint, but Draco knew he couldn't draw attention to himself by taking on Potter. He had to forget about Potter and Granger and the Weasel. The newly revised Plan A demanded it. He could no longer waste any energy, mental or physical, on the likes of them.

Draco knelt before the wall, the all too familiar ache of threatening tears stinging at his eyelids.

He hit the wall with one fist, but it was pointless. The wall remained a wall, cold and impenetrable. He didn't understand why the door would not appear. This desperation he was feeling, surely it would be enough to get him inside. Why would the room abandon him now?

He'd long since sent Crabbe and Goyle away. It was rich that, now that he'd finally convinced them again to help him, they had to witness his defeat, his pure powerlessness as the wall refused to reveal a door.

It was richer still to think of Potter flying free on that Quidditch field, racing through the air, the glory of his team and of the whole school.

Draco's stomach turned as he thought of the disdain and assessment in Potter's eyes when he'd confronted Draco. How dare he? Potter was still getting to live what Draco could no longer even touch. Potter had been heading to the Quidditch field, but for some inexplicable reason, he had wanted to know where Draco was going. Draco would have given anything to be headed to the Quidditch field. Potter didn't know how good he had it.

Now the Quidditch field was no longer for Draco, and the Room of Requirement wouldn't have him either. He was completely alone. Not only did he have no one whose wisdom he trusted, nor even anyone to make him a damn cup of tea, but now he had nowhere even to go. He was completely powerless, completely lost, and completely alone.

He thought about just lying down, right there in the hallway, and giving up. The cold stone of the floor beckoned him. It was like a gravestone. And if he were shut out of everything, cut off from everyone, then this would be it. He'd be dead. First his father, then his mother, then him. And he wouldn't even have the chance to take Voldemort down with him.

No, he couldn't allow it. No matter how seductive the impulse, Draco wouldn't lie down. Instead he stood, and walked, as if in a trance, to the empty girl's bathroom, where he sank to the floor and leaned against the cool tile wall. The heater in the corner bubbled noisily. There was something entirely comforting about the sound.

"Myrtle?" he asked in a quiet voice. "Are you in here?"

But there was no answer. A sickening weight pressed on Draco's chest, snuffing out his last thread of hope. Fuck. Look how far he had fallen.

He couldn't do this anymore.

He pulled a sheet of parchment out of his bag, and scrawled a short message on it. "Potter. You and I need to talk. Quidditch field, midnight. D.M."

There. Draco had until midnight to figure out what he was going to say to Potter, and perhaps why the fuck he was doing this. All he knew at the moment was that his situation was untenable. Too many variables had changed. He'd have to re-evaluate yet again.


End file.
